


First Line

by pleasegivemecinnamon



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 04:09:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7998040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pleasegivemecinnamon/pseuds/pleasegivemecinnamon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follows Trespasser</p>
<p>Years since she has last heard from him, Josephine is brought news of Cullen's fate.</p>
<p>(In which Josephine and Cullen had been together until Cullen continued to take Lyrium, and eventually left the Inquisition.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Line

**Author's Note:**

> There's a prompt generator that gives you a first line, and then this happened. I want to do another, probably another chapter of this with another first line prompt, or maybe just a one shot of something, but for now, enjoy!

Was it a knock that had woken her?  
Or had she not been sleeping at all? Josephine can't remember, only just notices that her eyes are open and staring at the engravings on her ceiling when there is a gentle knock on her door.

 

"Lady Josephine? The Inquisitor is here to see you."

\---

Thinking back, she had known it was him when she had gotten the first report of a rumor, nearly a month ago.

_A man with a Ferelden accent, curly blonde hair grown to the shoulder, begging for Lyrium in the streets of Val Chevin._

She had read the words and something in her heart had whispered and wasted, and she had known. 

_On occasion, when he's sane enough, they say he mutters nonsense about the Inquisition. Says he was there._

Leliana had brought Josephine the report herself. She had come to her family's home in Antiva City on a beautiful, warm afternoon like a name day surprise bearing gifts for her family. A new set of paints for Yvette, a beautiful topaz necklace for her mother, a fine red wine for her brothers to break against the side of the newest ship in their fleet. And for Josephine.. an envelope, bearing the broken seal of the Inquisition.

Josephine had ushered her into the study as soon as her family had begun cooing over their gifts, and sat. She wasted no time opening the envelope, unfolded the paper and flattened it against the wood of her desk.

Leliana had stayed pointedly away from her as she read. Her back was to Josephine as she scanned the literature on the shelves, not glancing back at her even once. An obvious attempt to give Josephine privacy. It was a kind act, if not incredibly endearing for someone who terrifies as many as Sister Nightingale does. But it was a revealing act as well. The words in the missive were not going to be pleasant. 

Josephine read the report quickly, and ignored how she trembled with every word. They had been looking for over a year now for any sign. Cullen had left the Inquisition restless, bored, the Lyrium in his blood coaxing him for something more, or so she was told. And then, only a year later, she held what he'd become in her hands.

"We do not know for certain?" is all she could manage. She had said the words in part to break the silence, because she had to say something, and equally to remind herself that despite the sureness she felt in her bones, they _did not know for certain._

"It could be him, or it could not be. The rumor is vague, and it is just that: a rumor. But it is our only lead." Leliana's voice had been firm, as it always is. But it had a gentle touch then, cautious for the sake of Josephine's sanity. She suspects that Leliana was as certain as she that the poor beggar was their Commander.

"I will send Scout Harding to Val Chevin to seek him out once I get back to Skyhold." She sat on the edge of Josephine's desk, and placed a gloved hand on hers. The leather was soft and worn, and reminded her of long nights in the War Room, when the same soft gloves and gentle touch would comfort her in those times of need. It had brought little of the same comfort then. 

"When she sends word, I will ensure you are the first to know, Josie."

 

\--

Josephine's dreams have been torturous since Leliana left.

 

They play out sweet and fond, and always end in the same. Like the well-crafted Orlesian operas that end in predictable variations of tragedy, but still bring tears to her eyes when the final note is sung.

She dreams of Haven on the first night, when they had first met. Cullen's eyes had stood out to her immediately, the honesty in his golden hues coming to her attention. Josephine could read them as easily as those of a young noble son who was making their first attempt at the Game. Except instead of poorly hidden nerves and agenda, there was only sadness and grief, all underlined in frigid determination. 

Another night she dreams of the first evening they had spent up in the battlements together, just after they had arrived at Skyhold. Haven had still been fresh in their minds then, both weighing heavily on their conscience and strengthening their resolve. He had come to her office near midnight, knocking gently before entering, to request gold for the families who had lost at Haven. Without a moment's hesitation, Josephine had said "Of course, Commander," and his shoulders relaxed just so, a movement so small she could have imagined it. But Josephine noticed then, how familiar Cullen looked in the candlelight. He was pale and tired, bags lining his eyes, and had a strained crack in his voice, guilt emanating from the way he held himself. It was something that she saw reflected the Inquisitor, in the soldiers, and servants. It was something that she saw reflected in herself, and she could not let it sit. 

They found themselves up in the battlements, bundled in coats while they overlook the moonlit mountains. There was a surprising lack of Inquisition matters discussed that night, only passing comments when their conversation veered close enough. Instead they spoke in soft tones, telling tales from their youth, and small secrets, and gentle laughter until small streaks of orange and blue snuck into the horizon. And when they had said good night, well, Cullen had said with a small smile, "Good morning, Josephine," something new and peaceful had begun between them, and it would never be the same.

Josephine dreams of their first kiss. It had been sweet but urgent, just a week before they left for Adamant. They had exited the War Room with plan in hand for the weeks to come. He had placed a gentle hand on her arm as the four of them left the room, a subtle sign that said beaconed her to follow. And she did, without a word. It is a day that is remnant of their first night in that spot, intimate, and warm, but there was something else. Cullen talked of his family more than he ever had, the affection in his voice has he speaks of his siblings and lucky coins, it had warmed her in the cold, mountain air. And then Cullen took her hand, placing the coin in the middle of her palm, gently closing her fingers around the metal. 

"Humor me," he had said and ducked his head. Through a rush of affection she decided that humoring him was not nearly enough. With a gentle tug, one hand still clutching the coin, she pulled him close, their lips meeting in a gentle brush.

On some nights, even painful memories make their way to her dreams. Images of Cullen curled in pain from the lack of Lyrium, waking him from their rest plague on one such occasion, the helplessness she had felt then had felt tenfold in the lucidity of the Fade. On another night her dreams bring to her mind the stress and worry of seeing him slice down demon and men alike, another aspect in which she could not could not help him, could not do a single thing. She dreams of the day when the Inquisitor had told him to go back to Lyrium, to abandon his effort, and how defeated he seemed as he took his worn kit from his drawer once again. She dreams of the night he had called her back to the battlement in the late night, some days after that. His voice was hard. His eyes more well rested then, but full of sorrow, poorly veiled in the darkness of night. She could still hear the way he had spoken to her, like a soldier, like a stranger. Saying that he should not be with anyone, speaking of staying focused, and some other nonsense that had made all the sense in the world given the situation, but still brought her to tears once he had walked away. Painful as they were, those memories still held fondness to Josephine, still warmed her, because he was alive and well then, doing what he was meant to do. And she could still be there with him, lend a hand, and an ear, and give wisdom and advice, and above all, see him do good for the world and himself even if they were miles apart. 

 

Unfortunately, the Fade is never satisfied. Each night, without fail, at the end of each sweet dream, the Fade shifts to haze and suddenly he is there hobbling in the streets, bloody knees rubbed raw from the stone roads in Val Chevin. The stubble of his cheek that had made home against the skin of her neck all those years ago has grown into a haggard beard, thick, grey with dust, and just showing his chapped lips through the fray when he pleads. He tugs on the clothing of those who wander too close, but his grip is weak, his thinning body unable to hold without Lyrium. A passerby spits on him as he walks, and Cullen just begs, and begs, and begs as if it were nothing for Lyrium, and coin, and scraps. She stands in front of him, and he does not recognize her. His eyes do not flicker with warm familiarity and the love that she has known and returned; he only sees the soft silk of her clothes, and the gold of her necklace, and shuffles towards Josephine with hands outstretched, voice cracking in desperation.

She wakes with the image of him, broken and alone, stained into her mind. The first time it happened is the day Leliana had delivered the missive. She had jolted up with a gasp, her heart constricting painfully against her chest, and sweating so profusely she had to push off her covers in order to breath. 

Most nightmares can be explained away. Josephine had asked Solas to help her understand once, a mistake, if the hour wasted was anything to go by. The Fade reaching into her subconscious and twisting together an image of her memories and imagination. But these dreams had felt different somehow. The detail is so terrifyingly vivid in her mind, tangible and surreal, and so branding that Josephine can remember them in detail for days. It is as if a demon has reached into the farthest depths of her mind to pull out the exact timbre of Cullen's voice, and the ragged details of the pale scar upon his lip, only to twist those memories into abomination. Not even attempting possession, the demon only taunting her endlessly with the image of what he may have become. 

With those dreams, she has not been able to sleep a full night. It is simply easier to lie awake, even if she is unable to think of anything but what he has become, than to let her mind wander free in the Fade.

 

But, now, that hardly matters; Josephine's maid stands at the door of her room, awaiting her response. Slowly, she lifts the covers off herself, tells the young servant to bring the Inquisitor to her office. And once she leaves, Josephine takes four breaths, in and out, eyes fixed onto the wood of the floor, before getting up. She moves without thinking, grabbing her robe and wrapping herself in it, taking the coin from her dresser and slipping it into her pocket, before exiting her room.

 

In a matter of minutes Josephine sits behind her desk once again, the Inquisitor seated across from her, with the fate of her dearest Commander Cullen sitting in the missive in her hands. Josephine lets herself hope for just a moment, even as her mind has begun to mourn.

She takes a deep breath, and opens the envelope.


End file.
